Jon kept eyes off of him, as much as possible. It wasn’t hard, as everyone milled around, doing their duty, all of them dressed the same. This was the easy part. Situating himself so he could inject Shaw instead of Stone would be the hard part. He eyed Mel, and he could tell she was thinking the same thing.
Jon looked to Mel again, trying to communicate with only his eyes, but she was turned. She had no anesthesiologist to assist, so she busied herself with the container for the bathtub that they would immerse Shaw in. But his heart leapt into his throat. Her hair dangled from underneath her surgical cap. Just a few strands. But her hair was dark, raven colored, and he didn’t know what Bab’s hair color was. He hoped it was black. He couldn’t say anything, not now. Shaw’s eyes wondered in his direction and he bent down, his face out of sight. Shaw would recognize him in an instant if he let him.
“Are we ready?” asked Shaw. “I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, Mr. Shaw,” said Stone. “I think we’re ready.”
“Great,” said Shaw. “The floor is yours, Doctor.” Shaw took a deep breath. Jon wondered if he was nervous. Did Shaw even get nervous? Jon didn’t know, but he doubted it. Shaw seemed to have infinite confidence, built from a lifetime of always being lucky, of things always going his way.
Except for his arm. And now he was going to rectify that.
Not if Jon could help it.
“There won’t be anesthesia,” said Stone. “So let’s begin by re-opening the wound site. Will, go ahead.”
The surgeon looked to Shaw, who nodded at him, and he cut, little by little, slicing away the skin that had been shaped around the raw muscle and bone after Shaw’s accident. Shaw grunted and gritted his teeth, but he didn’t flinch, even as the blood poured from his arm. His vitals were all over the place, his heart rate soaring. But the surgeon continued to work. They vacuumed and wiped away the blood, and soon the wound was re-opened.
“Move him to the tub,” said Stone, but they didn’t need to carry Shaw, only assist him off the stretcher, into the tub, blood spurting out of his arm. He sunk into the tub, his arm sticking out.
We have to do it now. Stone will inject him next. He looked to Mel, and she met his eyes. Even more of her hair was revealed. But Mel was getting closer to Shaw now. Jon inched his way there, but he had to stay within reach of the pump. He eyed Stone, who had the syringe in his hand.
“Preparing to inject—”
But then he stopped. He was staring at Mel.
“Take off your mask,” he said, his voice loud.
“Who? Me?” asked Mel.
“Yes,” said Stone.
“What are you doing, Doctor?” asked Shaw.
“I—” started Mel, but Stone walked to her in a quick motion, and ripped it off, revealing her face.
“We have an intruder,” said Stone. “Jon’s assistant.”
“Get her out of here!” yelled Shaw, but Jon saw his chance with Stone out of the way. He quickly inserted the serum into a syringe, stepped up and injected Shaw in his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Shaw. You’ll look beautiful,” said Jon, into his ear. The guards converged on Mel, grabbing her, but Shaw was yelling, yelling already.
Stone, it’s Dr. Matthe—” Shaw yelled, but the serum did its work. His arm grew, his body drinking in the nutrient bath, but Jon didn’t turn on the pump. Jon grabbed a medical tray from nearby and ran to a guard, swinging it as hard as he could. The guard wore a helmet, but it still knocked him silly, leaving a single man holding Mel.
He raised his rifle, but then Shaw made a noise, a guttural moan, loud, filling the room, and his arm began to mutate.
28
Shaw’s arm mutated quickly, and Shaw only screamed and grunted as his flesh grew and mutated.
“Please, more!” he screamed, and Jon didn’t know what he meant, but his arm continued to grow, the bone and muscle intertwining, just like the rats, just like the chimps.
Everyone stared in horror, doing nothing. Shaw climbed out of the tub awkwardly, grabbing the edge with his still growing arm, and then plunged it through the plastic coating of the hundred gallon container that held the nutrient bath. It spilled out, coating the limb, and it grew, the liquid soaking into Shaw’s skin. The arm grew faster then, as fast as Shaw’s body could take, and it became larger and larger.
Shaw’s body pulsated, shining as it bloated, Jon able to see the pulse of the mutation as it spread through his frame.
“More!” yelled Shaw. “I need more!” The words came from deep in his gut, and Jon barely understood him. The heavy container of liquid was emptying fast. Within a minute it would be gone. Still, it only lingered at the bottom of the tank, and Shaw couldn’t reach it.
He turned to face the assembled team, a dozen of them, plus the two guards. Shaw screamed again, and his body distended, his legs and other arm contorting, twisting, the skin bursting, reforming, bursting again, muscle splitting it wide open, strips of bone and cartilage interlaced. Shaw could only scream.
Stone was the first to speak.
“Shoot him!” he yelled at the guards, and the guards turned to him, forgetting Jon and Mel. Shaw whipped over a massive still mutating arm, hitting Stone with a thick thud in his chest, a horrible SNAP filling the room. Stone flew into the corner, smashing through piles of equipment. He softly groaned.
The guards opened fire then, full auto with their assault rifles, and Jon dove to the ground, pulling Mel with him. The gunfire was deafening inside the room, and dozens of rounds spit out from the rifles. They peppered Shaw, sick thuds with splatters of blood and gore. A few of the rounds missed, a couple members of the team falling to the bullets.
Shaw screamed as the weapons clicked empty, and the guards reached for more clips. Jon scrambled to his feet and pulled Mel with him, away from the troops as Shaw charged them, leaking from dozens of bullet wounds. But they were healing, fissures closing in his skin, more flesh being generated, more muscle being built, every wound only strengthening him. His face was the only thing left that looked human, but even now it was changing, his chin and nose and eyebrows growing, bone thickening.
Shaw charged the guards, and grabbed each of them in each arm, entangling them in flesh, sticking to them, tendrils of slimy skin absorbing them, their mass becoming Shaw’s. They screamed until they had no tongues.
Shaw turned, each of the guards still in his hands, when the doors flew open, the four guards outside, investigating the gunfire. The rest of the team had fled, and Jon and Mel dove again, out of the way of the additional guards. They opened fire, three with assault rifles, but the last had a flamethrower, and he waited for the three others to fire. Ninety rounds hit Shaw in center mass, digging a blood furrow into his torso. But he only healed, absorbing quickly from the two guards, the limp remnants of their bodies hanging loosely from his arms, what remained of them sluicing through their clothes.
But it slowed him down, and the noise Shaw made showed he still felt pain, a mastodon roar of agony and suffering. Hot shell casings tumbled on and around Jon. He heard a soft moaning as the gunfire ceased and saw Stone lying against the wall. Blood poured from his mouth and nose. Shaw had crushed something inside of him.
“J—Jon,” he sputtered. The flamethrower had stepped up, a bright blue flame ready to shoot.
Stone crawled to him and grabbed his hand as the flames filled the room with immense heat. Jon turned to look as the inferno engulfed Shaw, and the creature screamed again, its new flesh burning, blistering, charring, and then sloughing off, new meat already underneath. The flamethrower advanced, and Shaw actually retreated, trying to fall away from the incredible heat, the pain of being roasted alive.